Out Visiting
by Igorina
Summary: When a reluctant Crowley is cajoled by Aziraphale into visiting one of the angel's exneighbours, he doesn't anticipate the parting gift the old dear will bestow upon them. Features Crowley x Aziraphale.


Disclaimer: I own neither Crowley nor Aziraphale.

A/N: Just another little one-shot ficlet I wrote ages ago but didn't post here due to technical issues I was having with the site.

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Crowley looked down at the new sweater he was wearing and inwardly groaned. It was orange, itchy and possibly the most hideous item of apparel he'd donned since the Fourteenth Century.

"Kill me now angel," he muttered, as Mrs. Winstanleigh, Aziraphale's dotty old ex-neighbour and the perpetrator of the woollen atrocity, pottered about in her tiny kitchen.

"It's very good-"

"Angel!"

"I mean, very kin… game of you to do this, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered back. The angel was himself swathed in a green and purple cardigan that clashed horrendously with his old-fashioned, yet admittedly well tailored, tweed trousers. "She doesn't get many visitors these days, you know? Grandchildren live in Canada"

Crowley found himself biting back a rather acerbic comment about how Brenda Winstaleigh was positively famed for having lots of 'gentleman callersduring the 1950s. Instead he hissed something about this being a funny way to treat visitors.

"Well, it is your own fault dear," said Aziraphale, his voice tinged with a hint of guilty amusement. "When you turned up in that shirt last week, she thought that you mustn't be able to afford anything thicker."

"That shirt was Armani," Crowley protested.

"She just thought you were cold."

"How could she not know that you don't knit things like…like this," he gestured to the orange abomination, "any more?"

Aziraphale put a hand over his mouth, ostensibly to quash the mirth that threatened to erupt at his infernal companion's expense.

"Don't you dare," Crowley huffed. "Laugh at me and I'll…I'll…."

"You'll what?"

"I don't know, but it'll involve The Sound of Music… On infinite replay."

Aziraphale stiffened slightly. "There's no need for that."

Crowley was about to make a pithy and admittedly slightly snide reply, when the elderly woman cheerfully bustled back into the living room with a cake that looked as though it was several days passed it use-by date and a stack of family photographs.

He looked at Aziraphale with an expression of pleading desperation.

"It shouldn't take more than a few hours," Aziraphale whispered in tones inaudible to 98 of humans.

Crowley whimpered. He really wasn't quite sure what had possessed him to endure this ritual every Thursday afternoon for the last seven weeks. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He knew that the only reason he accompanied Aziraphale on these little visitations was that it made the angel happy and more likely to be open to the possibility of accompanying Crowley in activities that the demon enjoyed(1) . But he was still mired in rather deep trenches of denial about this fact.

"I'll tell you what," the angel continued as Mrs. Winstanleigh launched into an enthusiastic monologue about her daughter's ancient school photo, "afterwards you can come back with me to the shop and I'll personally remove that sweater…along with every other item of clothing on your person."

Crowley whimpered again. This time for an entirely different reason.

After two and half hours of Brenda Winstanleigh trawling down memory lane Crowley was starting to seriously consider discorporating himself. Fortunately, the promise of being disrobed by a heavenly being was enough to get him through until the chiropodist arrived to look at the old woman's bunions.

As the immortal pair said their goodbyes, Crowley found a paper bag, containing something hard and rectangular, pushed into his hands.

"Er, thanks," he said, desperately hoping that it didn't contain any more horrendous crimes against style. He then proceeded to practically drag Aziraphale out of the building.

"What on earth did she just give to you?" asked Aziraphale, as Crowley droved back towards Soho.

Crowley shrugged. "I dread to think. Have a look if you're curious."

Aziraphale removed the package from when it currently resided on the dashboard and emptied the contents on to his lap.

It was a book.

The lurid cover gave a pretty good indication of what lay within.

"My goodness!"

Crowley found himself slamming on the breaks.

For a while he stared at the steering wheel.

"Aziraphale," he said eventually. "Am I right to assume that that insane old bat has given us a…." He trailed off, suddenly overcome by an uncharacteristic fit of coyness.

"Sex manual," supplied a rather startled Aziraphale. "Yes it rather appears that she has."

The Bentley made it to Soho in record time.

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(1)Though Crowley had come to accept that there was nothing that would persuade Aziraphale to join him in the 'sticking valuable coins to the pavement game'.


End file.
